Page 15 of Captive of Outlaws

“All right. Yeah. No, I’m not sure,” LJ says. I crane myneck as inconspicuously as possible, trying to listen for the other end of the conversation over the phone, but it’s hard over the rumbling of the engine.

Will shifts, and I jerk back into my seat.

“Easy!” I cry.

“Sorry, greasemonkey,” Will says, flashing a smile. “Not my fault you’re not wearing a seatbelt.”

I glower at him. He has a point, though. I should buckle up, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. The bruise from last night is less acutely painful but still tender, and the thought of a belt crushing into my flesh makes me wince.

“I’ll take my chances,” I say. I suck in a deep breath. “Listen, people are going to be looking for me.”

Will cocks a confused eyebrow at me. “What?”

“I just mean...” I look at LJ, who seems to be wrapping up his conversation with El Jefe, and pause.

What I meant was that people were looking for me in a “hunt her down” kind of way. But maybe it’s to my advantage to imply the other sense. That someone’s really worried about me. That my family is desperate to get me back. That they’d better not harm a single hair on my head.

My heart squeezes. It’d be nice if any of that were true. But I can fake it well enough.

“My family,” I lie. “If I go missing, they’re going to go through hell and high water to find me.” I fold my arms. “So, I don’t know, don’t kill me or anything.”

Okay, not the most convincing pitch. But it’ll have to do.

LJ chuckles, hanging up his call. “Wasn’t planning on it, Princess.”

Will snorts derisively. “You think so little of us that we’re out here trying to kill innocent girls for sport? Please.” Heglances back at me. “If we’d wanted to, we already would have.”

“Well, then...” I falter. He’s smiling—it’s a joke to him. Goddamn these guys. “My father’s very close with the sheriff,” I say, upping the volume in my voice so maybe I’ll believe myself. “Just so you know. He’ll be out here looking for me any minute, I’d think.”

It’s only half a lie, I reason. And at the mention of the sheriff, the guys exchange a look. But to me, they say nothing.

“What’d Rob say?” Will asks LJ.

“Didn’t get him. Just Tuck. Rob’s out back.” LJ rolls his eyes.

“Of course,” Will scoffs. “Is there at least food ready?”

“Sounds like it, thank Christ. I could eat a horse.”

We’re winding up to the top of a hill now, and Will starts to slow. At first, I’m not sure why, and then I see it out ahead of us: a gate flanked by two stone walls that stretch out in either direction as far as I can see until they disappear into the trees. The gate is at least twelve feet tall, with a heavy-duty locking mechanism in the middle and a security camera perched on a pillar.

“Jesus,” I whisper.

“Told you we weren’t living in the dorms,” Will says. The Porsche glides to a stop and purrs as something at the top of the gate blinks, presumably scanning the car, and the gates glide open with only the softness of clinking sounds.

“What the hell is this place?” I mutter. I guess drug dens need security, but what do I know?

The trees seem to get more manicured-looking as we pull our way closer to our eventual destination, and I try to picture what’s down at the end of this long driveway, guesswhat’s around each curve. I’m picturing something rotting and ramshackle. Not quite a busted-out RV that smells like meth, but close to it. One of those old farmhouses that’s been abandoned and condemned for years now, taken over by a chemistry set, rows of old furniture, beer cans, guy stuff everywhere. Or maybe it’s even more makeshift than that: a series of tents or a lean-to made of sticks. I literally have no idea, and I almost laugh at how naive I am. My first real brush with crime beyond witnessing all the white-collar corruption in town, and I have no clue what I’m in store for beyond some movie clichés.

Finally, we pull up to our destination, and it’s not what I thought.

This is no moldering, sagging farmhouse. It’s a goddamn mansion.

And if this is what a drug den looks like, then Hollywood has lied to me.

Three grand stories rise before us in classic southern architecture with tall white pillars soaring up to support an elegant balcony that juts out from massive windows. A presidential driveway loops around with all kinds of vehicles parked all over the place: a couple more sports cars—all foreign makes, I note—and even a motorcycle. I’d always thought John’s brick antebellum townhouse in the heart of the county was as ostentatious and immense as it gets—even though I was forced to live in the shittiest part of it, it was hard not to notice how lavish it was.

But this place...this is something else entirely. This is practically a castle.

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